


What You Don't See / At This Chance 'Verse

by irisbleufic



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, First Time, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Haunting, Healing, Herbology, Illnesses, Injury, M/M, Multi, Nursery Rhyme References, Plants, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even <i>this</i> ending may chance to be more than it seems.</p><p>
  <span class="small">[<b><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/486362/chapters/27722487">#3: <i>THRESHOLD</i></a> added on 9/27/17!</b>  Promo for <a href="https://shakespearezine.tumblr.com/"><i><b>such stuff as dreams are made on</b></i></a>.  Get it <a href="https://gumroad.com/l/eJSF"><b>here</b></a>.]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What You Don't See

**Author's Note:**

> The story that started this series, _At This Chance_ , was written in late 2005; it owes a great deal to the English Touring Theatre production starring Ed Stoppard as Hamlet and Sam Hazeldine as Horatio (and _every _piece of _Hamlet___ fic I've ever written owes its very existence to the 2005 Boston Shakespeare On the Common production starring Jeffrey Donovan as Hamlet and Pedro Pascal as Horatio). Ever since, I've returned to it now and again as people make ficlet requests and as my whims dictate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in December 2009.

If there's anything of which Horatio is certain, it's this: aristocrats' sons are prats.

He could have, perhaps _should_ have, gone to Paris. In the end, he'd decided that the language barrier was simply too great: according to his ailing uncle, who had studied there, Danes were few and far in between, and the French had no great love of Germanic-flavored conversation. From a young age, Horatio had been under the starry-eyed impression that all scholars spoke Latin and Greek to one another, regardless of their mother tongues. As it turned out, he'd been wrong. His uncle's stories of humiliation at the hands of sharp-tongued Frenchmen and Flemings had been deterrent enough. In comparison, Wittenberg had promised him paradise.

Of course, a week into his studies, Horatio has discovered that it isn't heaven. Although there are Danes wandering about in spades, most of them come from families that wouldn't dream of rubbing elbows with Horatio's ilk. He's met at least a dozen of them: hard-headed lads with flashing eyes and smug grins, entirely unwilling to take intellectual risks in classroom debate, let alone in their written work, which they pass about the refectory and plagiarize at will. The tutors seem to turn a blind eye, secure in the knowledge that these wastrels' parents are content to pay their wages in return for taking their good-for-nothing sons off their hands for a few years.

After hours, they drink like the devil and gamble their way from one whorehouse to the next, heedless of the cost. When his work is finally finished, Horatio can't sleep for the volume of their carousing in the filthy streets far below. His cheap rented room smells of burnt wax and rotting wood. He wonders if the ceiling beams will even last the winter. Collapses are not uncommon, and neither are fatalities.

In the second week of term, three new students turn up to Master Schreiber's weekly philosophy debate. Horatio hears them before he can spot them, not interested enough to lift his eyes from the parchment. Their accents stink like a Zeeland fishmonger—yes, of the royal city itself. Helsingør, Elsinore, Kronborg's gloomy keep. Whatever your parlance, there's little to recommend either the place _or_ the men.

When Horatio finally does glance up to watch them shuffle to whatever empty seats they can find upon the worn, creaky benches, one of the newcomers catches his eye. The other two move quickly, eyes on the far side of the room, with an unaccustomed liveliness. It's enough to pique Horatio's interest, except he's distracted by the third young man, the lagger-behind, the one who's fixing him with clear, calculating eyes the color of Jutland skies in spring. Fleetingly, Horatio longs for home. He returns the young man's stare, unblinking, startled to see the shadow of his pain reflected back at him with eloquent, unspoken empathy.

Still, the cut of those fine clothes can only mean trouble. Horatio is surprised to see the young man rise from his seat when Schreiber asks the next question: _Is faith, then, a function of logic?_

The old man raises an eyebrow and follows up, hastily, “Your Majesty?”

 _By all the saints_ , Horatio thinks, returning his gaze to the parchment. _It's Young Hamlet_.

“Faith is less a function than a necessity, sir,” says the Prince, humor curling gently at the edges of his voice. “In my experience, those who do not live by it are plagued with fear.”

Schreiber tilts his head, scratching under his chin with a quill. “What do you fear?”

“Only what horrors I can see,” the Prince answers. He sounds honest, but the constant laughter underlying his tone grates on Horatio's nerves, as does the snickering of his fellows from the back. Horatio raises his hand.

“Yes?” says Schreiber, eternally patient. “Speak.”

“Those horrors are, doubtless, few,” Horatio says, not bothering to look up. “For my own part, faith and logic in equal parts produce equilibrium. For example, I fear only that my rafters may fall on me as I sleep.” This earns him a few knowing chuckles from students of similar circumstance.

“Is that not what I said?” asks the Prince, and for a moment, Horatio thinks the question is aimed at Schreiber. By the time he looks up, those pale eyes have been boring into him for several seconds.

“My lord?” Horatio responds. His hands on the parchment begin to shake.

“You, too, fear only what you can see—that is, rotting rafters,” Hamlet says. “Is that not so?”

“Yes,” Horatio agrees. “Within reason. I do not fear, for example, that God will be the one responsible for such a collapse. I merely rue my own lack of means.” He regrets his words instantly, terrified that his insolence might be taken as a plea for charity.

“Interesting,” Schreiber intones meaningfully.

“Then trust in your faith and find new lodgings,” says Hamlet, turning back to their instructor. The pair at the back break into applause, punctuating the racket with hoots and whistles. Schreiber ignores them: yet another benefit enjoyed by the rich.

Horatio scowls at his parchment, hating the lot of them already.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Prince Hamlet has three shadows, two of which Horatio thinks he could do without.

Guildenstern, the tall one with unfortunate freckles and a well-meaning smile, is more than a little bit thick. Horatio finds him an easy target in the weeks to come, arguing circles around the poor soul's befuddled utterances until Rosencrantz, the short one with a stubborn frown, or the Prince comes to his rescue. Rosencrantz is invariably combative, but Hamlet parries Horatio's assertions with a delicate, stunning intelligence. It's like rising to find you've been bound from shoulder to ankle in fine gossamer, helpless to feel aught but admiration as you fall in wonder to your knees.

It's enough to make Horatio wish he could catch the Prince alone, just to _talk_ to him, but he's not even certain such a thing would be permitted. Two of his shadows serve a fairly unnerving purpose, and Horatio wonders at the fact that Hamlet can't see it.

The court must get good gossip of his not inconsiderable progress.

The first time Horatio encounters the Prince unattended, he's up a gnarled linden tree behind the refectory. There is a modest pile of books perched precariously in Hamlet's lap. Horatio marvels that none of them have fallen like so many heavy leaves.

“You,” calls Hamlet, quietly, as if afraid of drawing attention to himself. “Mainlander!”

“That's not my name,” Horatio says, pausing directly beneath the Prince's perch. “But well done; I am what you take me for. Do you know what you northerners sound like?”

“No,” Hamlet says, forgetting himself, instantly curious. “What _do_ we sound like?”

“Sea birds,” Horatio tells him. “Great, noisy gulls squabbling over the morning's catch.”

Hamlet nods, as if this makes sense. “There's no lack of squabbling at court.”

Horatio places both hands against the trunk of the tree and tests the sole of one shoe against the bark, finding the traction sufficient. Inside thirty seconds, he's hoisting himself up one branch higher than Hamlet, none too pleased with himself. He settles and peers down at the Prince.

“Is there much call for climbing?”

“Call enough. I learned on an old willow that's in worse state than your rafters—with a young girl as my teacher. Have you found a new room?”

Horatio shakes his head, abashed. “I have not been looking. Rents are high.”

“O ye of little faith,” Hamlet says, grinning, and he's suddenly hauling himself up beside Horatio, less than a hand's breadth away, breathing hard with the effort. He's slight, but strong. “There's a room on the same hall as mine,” he huffs. “Rumor has it they've knocked the rent down by half due to a leak in one corner that's prevented anyone from taking it. Rosencrantz turned up his nose at the place.”

Horatio stares. “I'd take a leak over rot any day. Who's it preventing, pray tell?”

“Foppish cowards,” Hamlet replies. “Who else? Listen, I'll lend you a bucket if I must.”

The invitation lodges itself uneasily between Horatio's throat and stomach. But he's already asking, with a voice full of hope, “How much?”

“Less what I'll give you to ease the blow?” Hamlet asks. “I'm not referring to the bucket, either, although I shall give you that, too, mark my words.”

Horatio stares at the ground. “That first day in debate, I had not meant—”

“You hadn't meant a thing,” says Hamlet, sensibly. “However, turnabout is fair play. Do you know what you southerners sound like?”

“No,” says Horatio, with a grimace. “My good lord.”

“Sparrows,” says Hamlet, and they sit for a while in companionable silence.

When Guildenstern finds them, he looks less than pleased, but before Horatio can open his mouth to defend himself, the Prince trades his seagull drawl for the fierce hoots of a jackdaw. By the time Guildenstern leaves, he's gasping like a beached fish.

Horatio decides never to assume he knows Hamlet's intent unless, well, he _does_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In spite of the leak, the new room is warmer and drier than Horatio's old one. It's also located in one of the less bawdy corners of town, which means that he can, four nights out of seven, complete his work in peace. As for the other three nights, more often than not, Hamlet comes knocking. It's something of a surprise to discover that the Prince does not care to carouse as his friends do. Or go whoring, for that matter.

For the first few weeks of the arrangement, they drink wine, argue about philosophy (inasmuch as arguing entails the discovery of the multitude of points upon which both parties agree wholeheartedly), and plot various short-term fixes for the leak. Horatio insists they can't have it properly repaired, because the landlord will eventually discover what they've done and raise the rent. Hamlet gives him a strange look.

“Of course we can,” he says. “I'm paying the difference as it is. What's a bit more?”

“Do I amuse you so much? Truly?” Horatio asks. He means it in good fun, but as the Prince's eyes darken, he realizes he's finally crossed the line he'd been fearing all those months ago. He's only ever seen Hamlet give that look to Guildenstern.

“I did not think,” says the Prince, coldly, “that you thought so low of me.”

“My lord, _no_! I meant—”

Hamlet screws his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. At times, he is shockingly mercurial. “I know what you meant. Forgive me. It's just—”

“I am not welcome at court,” says Horatio, with black amusement. “Even in this wondrous microcosm we know as academia.”

“On the contrary, you are quite welcome,” Hamlet replies, squinting at Horatio as his eyes re-adjust to the light. “My fellows, however, do not appreciate their recent exile.”

“Why drive them away?” Horatio asks. “I might yet come to like Guildenstern. And Rosencrantz, for that matter. I do much prefer him to his fellow.”

“Because the more I like _you_ ,” Hamlet admits, reaching for the wine, “the less I like _them_.” He radiates self-resentment, swallowing the entire glass.

They're up the ancient linden again, and neither one remembers how to sing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The fateful evening comes on the tail of a spectacular row in which Hamlet tells his shadows off with such aplomb that Horatio is left standing utterly speechless. In some corner of his mind, his conscience is whispering, _You will see this time and again: world without end, amen_.

Inexplicably, he is afraid for all of them. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stalk off, defeated, glaring daggers. The wrongness of it rattles him.

They fly swiftly homeward, a mostly mute pair of birds, neither one sounding as harsh to the other as he had done at first.

Today, home means Hamlet's room, as they reach it before they reach Horatio's, and Hamlet knows that Horatio can't bear the thought of sitting alone with the ghost of his so-called betters' disapproval.

When Hamlet pins him against the closed door with a breathless, startling kiss, the world unravels. Horatio's knees buckle, but Hamlet slips one of his own up between Horatio's thighs to steady him. And more than that, and so _much_ more.

Horatio had known, perhaps, that it had always been coming to this: the sound of Hamlet's ragged breath as Horatio's fingers tear his fine shirt free of his breeches and find purchase in the slats of his ribs. _So thin_ , Horatio thinks again, wondering. _Does he even eat when he's not told?_

But the Prince's unsteady fingers are already unlacing Horatio's shirt, and his staggering breath, softest birdsong, is begging _yes._

It's disorderly and tender all at once. Hamlet doesn't give him time to protest that they're only naked from the waist down, shirts still damp and clinging, but they're chest to chest in spite of it and Horatio's heart stutters at the feel of what's tucked between them, hidden, aching. He's wanted this beyond all logic, faith be damned. He's not afraid of what he can't see, and as for what he can feel, oh, _Christ_.

Hamlet shudders in Horatio's arms, his low cry a blessing. The unseen linden-leaves shake, wild with wanting.

“Are you afraid?” Horatio gasps, his fingers fanned like wings in Hamlet's dark hair.

Hamlet nods, smile disarmed, pressing their foreheads together. “But what of that?”

It's then that Horatio knows his faith is branch and nest enough, whatever horrors may yet come to haunt them.


	2. Sand, Silver, Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in May 2007.

The docks are no place for the students, the university tutors say, especially not for the nobles' sons. But Horatio is no nobleman, and neither is the Prince—not tonight, anyway, as Hamlet has decreed himself a commoner, and Horatio supposes that this is as sound a piece of logic as any.

They've found a stretch of unused strand where the Elbe stays well within its bounds, and, as ever, their only observers seem to be bats, insects, and the occasional catfish meandering through the shallows. If any passers-by should chance to hear them, such sounds are common enough.

In a split second, Horatio is finished.  There's a silver flash against the backs of Horatio's eyelids; lightning strikes some bell-tower far in the distance, and his pleasure ebbs. The taste of blood is bright in his mouth as he bites his tongue hard enough to stay a scream.

Hamlet strains against him, hardly as silent; exhausted, Horatio wants to sink back onto the assortment of cloaks they've spread on the sand.

Instead, he curls the cradle of his body tighter around Hamlet so as not to let his lover drown.


	3. Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece was written for [_**such stuff as dreams are made on**_](https://shakespearezine.tumblr.com/), a Shakespeare zine that's coming out as we speak! Get it [**here**](https://gumroad.com/l/eJSF). As a consequence, this piece can be read as either a stand-alone that comes before canon, or as a part of this series (reordered accordingly, as this piece falls very early in this sequence even though it's the most recently written).

Raucous cock-crow from the guildhall yard is what rouses Hamlet, or is what _would_ have if he had gotten a shred of sleep.  To any voyeur, he might have appeared so.  He imagines the illusion shattered as he opens his eyes, finding them encrusted with evidence of the previous evening.

Damn Osric's staid tone as he had delivered the grave news before Hamlet and Horatio in their habitual corner of the refectory.  Damn his travel-weary demeanor and his dust-rimed clothes, damn them to profoundest torment.  Of all the utter _fools_ Hamlet's mother could have sent.

Appetite gone, Hamlet had dismissed the courtier to whatever nearby inn suited him.  He had insisted that they delay departure until dawn, citing the need for privacy and rest.

On Osric's dismayed departure, Horatio had released his held breath and, beneath the table, immediately sought Hamlet's hand.  For the remainder of supper, he had scarcely let go.

Too raw for a dockside tryst, the weather had at least relented for their meandering walk home.  Dodging Guildenstern and Rosencrantz had become one of Horatio's unerring specialties, for which Hamlet had been, under the circumstances, unspeakably grateful.  Had he not begun to weep as Horatio swept them out the back, past courtyard and linden, _still_ words would have failed him.

Hamlet had deferred shoving belongings into his ancient trunk until well past midnight.  The warmth of pushed-together beds piled with furs and eiderdown had taken precedence—and, in it, the haven of Horatio's embrace.  They had long since abandoned the pretense of distraction. 

Tear-stricken, Hamlet knows his mouth must have tasted as much of salt as any other part of him.  He longs for silence, for some mechanism by which to win back those hallowed hours past.

Horatio finally stirs from slumber, his tousled head nonetheless heavy upon Hamlet's chest.

“Must you go alone?” he asks, voice thick, entwining their fingers against the pillow.

“Would propriety did not call for such,” Hamlet replies with distaste, “but I fear it.  Yes.”

“Sentencing you to a week's journey by river and road with only that loon for company is _not_ merciful,” Horatio insists, clambering off the edge of one mattress in Hamlet's cover-strewn wake.

Hamlet snatches up Horatio's clothing piece by piece, and then presses the collection to Horatio's chest.  Their quarters are freezing, the fire long gone out.  Horatio shivers as they kiss.

“Then accompany us as far as the docks, and I'll count my journey bearable,” Hamlet says.

Horatio begins to dress even as Hamlet sorts the mess of his garb between floor and trunk.

“From the day you arrived,” murmurs Horatio, fervently, “I've done naught but follow thee.”

Hamlet considers this through an onslaught of grief, what he wishes to say an impossibility.

“Then sleep a while longer if it will ease your conscience,” he says at length, startled as Horatio takes over the task of lacing his doublet for him.  “I might as easily bid you adieu where we stand.”

“And I might as easily join you once His Majesty's interment has passed,” Horatio suggests, eyes fixed on his fingers' movements.  “As your guest at the nuptials, you understand.”

“Our talk of philosophy alone might not withstand parting,” Hamlet laughs, relieved at the respite Horatio's cleverness may grant them.  “Frightful, to neglect matters of the mind—all for what, a royal death in coincidence with the holiest of holy days?  Why, just past Twelfth Night, our exams _—_ ”

“A depraved jest, I always thought,” Horatio mutters, placing Hamlet's cap on his head, “holding them on the eve of the _Epiphany_.”  His face falls as he steps back.  “Oh, sweet Hamlet.”

It is as near as they have come to speaking of the thing for which Hamlet dearly longs.

“I'll look a fright regardless,” he replies, bravely smiling.  “Best to leave it, is that not so?”

“Stuck with feathers you stole from gulls and sparrows,” Horatio sighs, adjusting the cap and its adornments one last time.  “Take care how you present yourself, my lord.  They'll think you mad.”

“Good Horatio, I'll take none,” insists Hamlet, “save the care with which you leave me.”

“Alas, it's not _my_ place to leave,” Horatio replies with sudden regret.  “Is Osric waiting?”

“Doubtless,” Hamlet sighs, fetching Horatio's cap from the bedpost.  “At our very door.”

“Then I'll go with you, my lord,” Horatio says with hope, “as far as providence allows.”


	4. At This Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in November 2005.

The King comes to breakfast at half past ten, and not a moment sooner.

Fortinbras rises from his seat, as do the others, and bows his head until the seat at the head of the table is taken. For many a month now, he has been a frequent guest in Elsinore; it is a wonder, he thinks, that he has not since his first unhappy encounter with the court outstayed his welcome. Beside Fortinbras, Osric fidgets with his gloves. To his other side, Reynaldo stands with calm and perfect poise, as if in silent prayer.

"I bid you good morning and fair welcome, friends."

The King's voice echoes in the vaulted hall, far stronger than it ought to be after such an ordeal as they have all borne witness. At the King's right hand, Horatio—the unfortunate schoolfellow, and a brave man besides—stands with his hands folded on the back of his chair, his clear eyes fixed on the pale, empty plate set before him. The King gestures, almost too slightly to be noticed, but Horatio's head is the first to rise.

"Your Majesty, much thanks," he says, and at this signal, they take their seats.

As with most meals in the palace, it is a somber affair. Many at court seem to have tired of Rhenish, for even at such a fair hour of day, there is no such drink to be had. Fortinbras fills his cup with water from the nearest jug, offering it after to Osric. The young man refuses with a wave of his delicately stitched gloves, quietly awaiting the servants, who have come in bearing trays laden with the morning's repast.

At the head of the table, there is quiet conversation. Horatio's voice, in spite of its measured softness, has a way of carrying the length of the hall in counterpoint cadence to the King's. They do not speak of state matters, not so far as Fortinbras can tell. There has been some strain since his false start to the throne, but his standing invitation of welcome in Elsinore gives him reassurance that his life is not in danger.

Restrained laughter rings from the far end of the table, as if borne in on the sun.

At the sound of Horatio's voice, the King falls intent and listens.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The Queen lived for less than an hour._

_The poison in the cup had been a distilment of such a kind as Fortinbras's physician had never seen. His soldiers had borne the Queen to her chamber at Osric's direction, pale and trembling, and in the end they had watched her hands' last grasping wish for life._

_Roused again, wracked with the ravages of poison, she spoke._

_"The drink—tell Hamlet—tell him it was—"_

_Darkness trickled from the corner of her mouth. The physician wiped it away._

_"Madam," said Fortinbras, clasping her clawed hand, "it shall be done."_

_"Good," Gertrude whispered. "He should not...."_

_Fortinbras looked away as her blunt nails cut into his palm._

_"Peace," he said, closing his eyes. "Victory was his."_

_The Queen died, choking, with her son's name upon her lips._

 

 

* * *

 

 

At midday, Osric closes the chamber door.

The King and Fortinbras are well bestowed, with cushioned benches and casks of wine at their disposal. Horatio is at his desk in one corner, silent except for his quill against the parchment or his trimming-knife at work. Osric takes his place beside the door, his hands folded in front of him. The post might have been his, had events turned out differently. His lot may be no better than before, but it's certainly no worse.

Fortinbras pours two glasses of Rhenish and tentatively offers one to the King. The King accepts—not hesitantly, but slowly, as if something in the act of reaching and grasping is yet difficult for his lately recovered frame. Even as recently as a month ago, his life was no surety.

In the corner, Horatio lowers his quill and listens.

The King reclines upon his cushions, head inclined to rest upon one hand. His eyes have not lost their haunted, weary brightness, and Osric is willing to guess that they might be forever changed. It does his majesty no disservice, truly. Even after wounding and in illness, he'd been as comely a figure as any gentleman could wish.

Horatio starts to write again, apparently satisfied that Fortinbras has come this time to speak only of matters pertaining to treaty and friendship. Indeed, the King has been most gracious in his offerings to Norway. The man who had nearly taken his crown had, it seemed, all but free rein of the palace upon his frequent visits.

The King's laughter, a new and fragile sound of late, is startling.

From across the vast divide, Horatio warily catches Osric's eye.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Laertes, they brought in next, upon discovering that his breath had not left him._

_The physician shook his head, examining the long, shallow cut that the Prince's sword had made across the young man's white stomach. The wound was red, angry with more than blood, and though the venom from the blade was not of the cup's caliber, it had put the young man into a fitful sleep from which the physician doubted he'd wake._

_Fortinbras placed Laertes's hands upon his chest, then crossed it with the other. The flash of his throat in the dim light was high and shallow, infrequent, and his hands upon his heart rose and fell less frequently with each passing second. The physician pressed one hand to the young man's neck, his expression grave._

_"He was the last of his father's line, was he not?"_

_"That is what I have been told," said Fortinbras, pressing the backs of his fingers to Laertes's cheek. The color was draining from his body as fast as his breath._

_"He was the Prince's peer, my lord."_

_Fortinbras turned away, reaching for the door._

_"Bear him to the stage. His rapier would have shown him for a good soldier."_

_Behind him, Laertes heaved a gasp, and then lay silent._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Marcellus finds early evening the calmest hour of the day.

For nigh on ten years, his watch has then begun, and God have mercy on his soul if it should change. The King, lately restored to his former health, has not made senseless changes in the order of Elsinore—new councilors, perhaps, but he has kept the palace guard-ranks as they are. For this, Marcellus is grateful, as there's comfort in habit.

With the arrival of fair weather, the King has taken to walking in the gardens. The first tentative buds have come to bloom: crocus, hellebore, and dog-rose. The violets that line the cobbled paths have begun to creep between the stones, pale white and purple ripples in the sunset breeze.

The King, Lord Fortinbras, and Horatio stand at the far end of the gardens, their backs to Marcellus, eyes cast far out to sea.

God's truth, it was no certainty that the King would live. For months, the court had seemed a barren place, and empty. At first, Marcellus had been certain that Horatio was wrong to stay. Such things could only come to hardship and danger, he'd thought.

The breeze carries the King's soft laughter to his ears like a guilty, wistful secret. His eyes are not what they used to be, but he can hear Horatio's careful voice now, making some gentle response. Fortinbras is silent, perhaps in contemplation, hands clasped behind his back.

The King stands near to Horatio, hands splayed on the wall.

Marcellus wonders if the ghost has truly gone to rest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Prince Hamlet, the Royal Dane, fought for his life into the early hours of morning._

_"The poison has not yet spread to his heart," explained the physician, tracing a line from the angry gash in the Prince's thigh up and across his torso. "He suffers greatly."_

_"But he resists," insisted Horatio, angrily, nearly leaning across the bed. "Can you do nothing? If there's yet some delay in the tracks of the body, perhaps—"_

_The physician sighed and glanced away, re-soaking the rag in the basin, stirring its stewed contents with an agitated twitch of his hand. He met Horatio's eyes._

_"These herbs have drawn out what they can," he explained, pressing the cloth into the wound a last time. "I can close the flesh, that it may chance to heal, but…"_

_"Then do," said Fortinbras, taking hard hold of Horatio's shoulders as the prince's head tossed sharply to one side against the rumpled pillow. "Do what you must."_

_Once or twice, at the prick of the needle, Hamlet's lips twitched as if to speak._

 

 

* * *

 

 

At the end of the day, Horatio finds court life tiresome.

For the hundredth time as he walks the long hall, he thinks to himself that Elsinore is, indeed, a cold prison in comparison to Wittenberg. The library is as fine as the university's collections, but he prefers a cramped and quiet space, candlelight, and constant interruptions from the desk across the room. Those days, sadly, are done.

The doors of the King's bedchamber are open, though they are heavy. He gives them a hard pull, and manages to slip inside without crushing himself. The King stands waiting, alert, as if he's gotten up to answer the doors.

"Good my lord, I won't have it," he says, panting, and manages a bow.

"No more than I shall," says the King, advancing, and takes hold of his shoulders, raising him up. "How far will you carry these formalities, dear Horatio, when you've no more strength for them than I?"

"Far enough for us both," Horatio replies, steadily meeting the King's gaze. "You are not to undertake matters of heavy lifting." He finds it difficult to keep a straight face.

The King's lips twitch, relaxing into a smile.

"Something too much of this," he whispers, his hands slipping lower. "Horatio—"

A kiss, Horatio finds, is as good a cure for excessive words as any.

"To bed," he murmurs, "sweet Hamlet."

"To bed," agrees Hamlet, and laughs.


	5. Courtesan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in July 2011.

When the others have gone, only the two of them remain.

 _The rest is silence_ does not hold the same horrors it did on first hearing; rather, it is a promise that hangs between them, hopeful, at the close of each day. Horatio rises from his throne-side seat, leaning close to remove the crown from Hamlet's brow.

“Your burden is heavy, my lord,” Horatio jests, weighing the jewel in his grasp.

“Then bear it for me a while,” says Hamlet, placing it on Horatio's head.

“This is treason, surely,” Horatio sighs, adjusting the crown. “Or worse.”

“It's neither as long as I say so,” Hamlet reassures him, tugging Horatio forward. “And I _do_ say so,” he adds, daring now to do what he has never done in this centuries-old hall: lean up, all but begging, for a shameless and open-mouthed kiss.

Horatio finds it a strange thrill, this knowing that the only thing between them and discovery is the pair of heavy, ancient wooden doors so lately closed by the guards. He shifts forward into Hamlet's lap, settling to a satisfied grunt at the tightening of his arms about Hamlet's shoulders. Even now, calamity a year and more gone, they're both thinner than they were in Wittenberg: still wounded, fragile.

“I fear for what they must say,” Horatio murmurs against the rasp of Hamlet's cheek, pushing his hardness, impossible to disguise, against Hamlet's. “You refuse to marry.”

“If the mad English queen refuses to marry, then I may certainly do so,” Hamlet insists, his hands busy at the fastenings of Horatio's breeches.

“The people look to you for an heir,” Horatio sighs, struggling to keep still as the King's fingers grasp him. “That, I cannot give you, sweet Hamlet.”

“Nor would I ever ask it,” sniffs Hamlet, as he strokes a steady rhythm. “Dreadful business, the conception of heirs. My mother hardly profited.”

“Indeed not,” Horatio manages, letting his head fall forward, kissing Hamlet's tousled hair. “In bearing you, she did nothing short of triumph.”

“I'll thank you to close your mouth,” Hamlet says, busying his own at Horatio's ear. “You risk putting me off, and our remaining time here is short.”

“I find Norway disagreeable in winter,” Horatio says, although his thoughts are increasingly lost to pleasure, to his all-but-failed efforts of freeing Hamlet from his clothing, enough to press skin against skin. Hamlet abandons his efforts to wrap both arms about Horatio's waist, stifling a groan against Horatio's neck. “Must we go?”

“If this truce with Fortinbras is to hold, then yes, we must, as seasonal hospitality dictates,” Hamlet hisses through gritted teeth, and Horatio knows that by now, were they confined to the privacy of the royal bedchamber, he'd be in pieces.

They abandon speech for a while. Hamlet finishes first, soundlessly gasping, and Horatio holds on a few minutes longer. In these moments, his friend, his beautiful Prince, untainted by the responsibility he now carries, is never far from him.

“What must they say,” Horatio says at length, stroking Hamlet's hair, “about _me_?”

Hamlet straightens under him and tightens his embrace, all protective authority.

“I'll tell you exactly what they say. To the guards and any other officials wise enough to mind their own affairs, you are my most trusted advisor, friend, and companion; you are to me as Polonius was to my father, and then to my uncle, may Heaven forgive them both. To those who have an ear for gossip, by which I mean those who are in my favor, but possess no inherent authority, you are regarded as my consort. To our enemies, you're a fine example of an opportunistic courtesan.”

Horatio considers this in silence, and then presses a kiss to Hamlet's forehead.

“How far I've come,” he says, “from _fellow student_.”

“This suits you far better, although you haven't enough jewels by far for a courtesan,” Hamlet replies, tapping the crown.

“You'd better see to it,” Horatio tells him.

Hamlet, silent now in his turn, only smiles.


	6. The Backs of His Hands / The Sun in His Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in July 2011.

It doesn't take long to discover that they no longer need light to guide them.

Hamlet wears the crown to bed out of sheer absent-mindedness, Horatio discovers as he attempts, aimlessly, to bury his fingertips in Hamlet's hair. Hamlet curses and removes the jewel, letting it drop to the floor beside the bed with a sickening clamor. In the hush afterward, between fits of breathless laughter, they hear another pearl drop loose from its setting and roll across the polished marble floor.

The memory of poison catches in their throats, spurs them on to another kiss.

Hamlet's hands in Horatio's are warm and vital, both their palms damp with sweat. They twist in the sheets, their clothing half gone, fingers and fists finding each point of contact: head, shoulders, hips, buttocks, thighs.

Horatio catches Hamlet behind both knees and tugs him in with a hard, helpless thrust. Hamlet's breath hisses past his teeth.

"No candles?" Hamlet whispers, still moving. "Not even a lamp?"

"I'll have none," Horatio replies, closing his eyes. "I know you."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Horatio wakes to blinding brightness and Hamlet's teeth at his nape.

"You can't just let it rest," he mutters, groaning as Hamlet uses one agile foot to drag the wreck of his undergarments the rest of the way down his right leg and kick them deep under the covers. "What's the hour? Seven? Surely you're not looking forward—"

"It's not yet struck, but yes, nearly seven," Hamlet replies, and Horatio can feel flesh and the sparse tickle of hair all down his spine and backside and thighs. He's managed to strip himself, too, the clever bastard. "We depart for Norway at ten of the clock. I expect to have you at least once before we depart, and I do mean _have you_ in such fashion as you'd bear marks the length of our forthcoming ride. Or if you'd have _me_..."

Shocking, to hear such talk from sweet Hamlet, but certainly not unwelcome.

"Then use the time well," says Horatio, sleepily. "You'll have to rouse me first."

"I'll not rise to close the drapes," Hamlet warns, and then sucks at Horatio's shoulder.

Horatio squints at the pillow-slip and sighs, relaxing back into Hamlet's embrace.

"No, but you'll rise for me," he murmurs, grinning.


	7. Changes and Dreams / Rare Delicacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in December 2011.

Akershus looms over them in the snowy twilight, and Horatio can see his breath.

"More a fortress than a castle," he mutters, shoving the ice-jammed carriage door open. "It's half a foot deep, my lord. Wrap yourself warmly."

"Given the blizzard we've endured these past twelve hours," Hamlet says from within as Horatio lands with a powdery crunch, "I find it no surprise."

"Had we gone by ship, we'd have frozen," Horatio tells him, gathering up Hamlet's heavy fur-lined cloak as he descends, bracing Hamlet's arm.

"You'd have warmed me until the melt," Hamlet says in a low voice, finding his footing as his feather-and-garnet-decked cap slips down over his eyes. Above, the footman sniffs, pretending he hadn't heard.

Horatio rights Hamlet's cap, swallowing laughter.  He boldly steals a kiss while the footman isn't looking.

"What of the monsters waiting out in the deep?"

Hamlet considers this, licking his lips with a frosty exhalation.

"Your discourse would have thoroughly bored them, no doubt."

Horatio yanks Hamlet's cap back down over his eyes as the footman dismounts. The second coach is not far behind them, heavy-laden with their belongings, gifts for the court, and a recalcitrant Osric. It has been a hard, cold three days' journey.

Hamlet removes his cap and gestures at Akershus, regarding Horatio with awe.

"It is the Eve of Christ's Mass," he says. "And we are here as friends, not foes."

"As Fortinbras would have it," Horatio replies. "And, between us, as lovers."

"As surely would I," Hamlet murmurs, taking hold of his hand. "Norway awaits."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You are merry, my lord," says Horatio, leaning over Hamlet, frowning. "With drink."

Hamlet tries to sit up, but the guest-chamber bedding is far too soft, and he flops ineffectually back against the exorbitant pile of silk pillows with Horatio pinning him in place. His vision swims, and Horatio's frown intensifies. His lips are stained pink.

"Why did you take it?" he asks, shaking Hamlet gently. "You could have refused."

"I've not tasted _Eiswein_ in many years," Hamlet slurs. "Or _Tokaji_ , for that matter."

"No, not since Wittenberg," Horatio sighs, releasing him. "But that's not so long ago."

"Is it not?" Hamlet asks, entranced by Horatio's shadowed gaze. "Truly?"

"Now I know why you detest drink. It robs you of wit _and_ words, heaven forbid."

Hamlet raises himself unsteadily and claims Horatio's mouth, a messy clash of teeth.

"You taste of those sweets," he mumbles. "Devils' fruit."

"Angels' fruit if they're any," Horatio shushes him, laying them down. "Cloudberries."

"Abominations," Hamlet insists, uncertain why he's still talking, "don't grow in winter."

"I should not have said what I said," Horatio murmurs, stroking Hamlet's hair. In spite of their inebriation, they're both hard beneath the tangled sheets, naked since moments after they stumbled in from their first audience with Fortinbras.

"Said what?" Hamlet asks, fumbling for Horatio's cock. It dampens his palm, heavy with need. He squirms, spreading his legs so that Horatio rests flush between them. They kiss again, ravenous, fingers and and ankles tangling.

"That you are— _ah_ , sweet Christ, you know your mark.  Never mind it."

"You taste of them," Hamlet whispers, stealing another bruising kiss. "Of Eden."

"Fortinbras has gardeners," Horatio manages. "The cultivar grows year 'round."

"That I am what?" Hamlet persists, and then sucks viciously at Horatio's neck.

"Merry," Horatio groans. "An ill-chosen phrase."

"Damn your long memory," Hamlet sighs, stilling as his head spins. "I'd forgot."

"Don't, I pray you," says Horatio, gently, kissing Hamlet's closed eyes.

"I am a fool," replies Hamlet, and attempts to roll out from under him.

"No more than I," Horatio says, trapping him. " _Stay_."

"Berries," Hamlet sighs, fingering Horatio's stained lips. "Not blood."

"Hush, my love," Horatio tells him, falling back into that familiar, comforting rhythm.

Surrendering, Hamlet holds him fiercer and closer than life.


	8. Closer

Horatio removes Hamlet's heavy, fur-lined traveling cloak and lays it aside at the foot of their bed ( _his_ bed in name, but _theirs_ in practice) before the valet can set a finger upon the clasp. Hamlet snaps wearily at the lad even though he intends no curtness.

"To the kitchens with you! We are weary, and I'd have the servants draw a bath."

"And one for Horatio in his chambers, sir?" ventures the boy, already at the doors.

"One here will suffice," clarifies Horatio, gently. "His Majesty would have me stay."

"Yes, Horatio—yes, _Majesty_ —it will be done," says the boy, ducking his head, and exits.

"You'll spoil him," sighs Hamlet, unfastening Horatio's cloak in kind, "letting him call you by name. The station to which you've been raised for a year and more deserves nothing short of _my lord_ by way of address. Insist upon it."

"In good conscience, my lord, I cannot," says Horatio, wryly, reaching for the laces of Hamlet's doublet. "The lad might confuse me for my better."

"That's enough of your cheek," Hamlet replies, wistful and fond. "We were never aught but equals. Our time at Wittenberg stands as testament."

Unable to resist, he takes Horatio's face in both hands, draws him close for a kiss.

They part with reluctance and undress in silence, Hamlet finding himself still grateful of Horatio's aid once Horatio has seen to himself. They shiver into one another, stiff and frozen from several long days' travel. The chamber has not yet unthawed, the fireplace having scarcely been lit. They huddle naked beneath the heavy covers until a knock sounds without the doors, wrenching them apart.

"The bath will come anon!" calls the boy. "Quarter of an hour hence."

"You made good speed!" Horatio shouts back. "Get home to your mother, young master. She'll wish to hear stories you've learned in Norway."

Hamlet presses them front to front, pinching the back of Horatio's thigh. "Give him airs, why don't you. Love, do you defy me out of sport?"

"No," says Horatio, teeth gritted. "Let it but remind you where we have been. Heaven and _earth_ , would you have me desperate before the tub even arrives?" He sucks in his breath, nuzzles the crook of Hamlet's neck. "Your dressing gowns, where are they?"

"Just where they ought to be," Hamlet responds, smirking at Horatio's flustered state. He's right, though; they'd best wait. "Out with the luggage."

"Why I bed with a creature so intolerable is anyone's guess," Horatio mutters, wriggling free of him, but he's smiling as he crawls from under the covers to fetch their cloaks. "Wrap up, sweet Hamlet, and let's sit by the fire till they come."

They sip the contents of two silver beakers Osric has sent up for them— _brændevin_ from Claudius's dwindling stores, by the burn of it—chatting idly until the servants bear in the copper tub ten minutes later and fill it with pitcher after pitcher of scalding water.

Even from his chair several feet away, Hamlet can smell hyssop and rosemary in the lazily curling steam.

He closes his eyes against the memory of a girlish voice that once coaxed him terrified up the old willow.  Ophelia had recited the litany of herbs she had been taught by her nurse with convincingly witch-like glee, claiming she'd curse him if he didn't make it to the top.

"She returned to them," murmurs Horatio. "To root and flower, to blooming—not to cold earth. I beg you remember, and do not blame yourself."

"Let it stand," says the remaining servant, sparing Hamlet the need to respond, "else you'll be burnt. Shall we come for it within two hours? Three?"

"There's no need," replies Horatio. "Leave us till morning, and the bath, too."

The servant bows: twice, once to each of them. Hamlet watches Horatio rise to see the youth out, another habit of which he doubts his consort will ever be broken. It was bad enough he tidied up after them both when the maids weren't swift enough.

"Who else should I blame?" answers Hamlet, rising to watch Horatio bar the door. Horatio's furs slip from his shoulders, puddling on the floor. Hamlet wishes he'd held his peace, for he'd have preferred no further words that evening. "Her father's death being on my head, Horatio, _who_?"

Horatio closes the space between them in a dozen not-quite-angry strides, his breath swirling to echo the steam rising patiently to their left. By candle, lamp, and shadow, his hair and stubble, middling fair and reddish, spark fiercely in the low light.

"I prefer you blame no one," he says quietly, divesting Hamlet of  _his_ furs, "but, if you must, blame your uncle. His meddling was cause enough."

Hamlet nods, just once, and willingly lets Horatio help him climb into the tub.

They fall into an easy pattern out of habit, washing each other in the slightly cramped space. Two bodies cause more water displacement than one, and more than a few splashes gracelessly wet the stone floor. Finished scrubbing, but loath to leave the warm, but steadily cooling water, Horatio sighs and settles against the curved side of the tub, pulling Hamlet back to rest against him. Hamlet feels Horatio's breath hitch.

"I'd give anything to see these cruel ghosts cease vexing you. What can I do?"

"What you are doing," says Hamlet, letting his head fall back against Horatio's shoulder. "What you have already done."

"Speak till your conscience is clear," Horatio says. "I'd have you sleep tonight."

"And I'd simply have you instead," Hamlet parries, too quickly, "if you'd permit it."

Horatio shakes his head, brushing stray droplets from Hamlet's temple. His other hand dips beneath the water, drifting down farther still.

Hamlet is tired, but not too tired to respond. It vexes him that Horatio would enact this tease instead, thereby forcing him to talk. Horatio's underwater grip is loose and noncommittal. Helplessly, Hamlet bucks into it and swears.

"Nay, I'll not burn for slaying a false king and his fool, but I may yet do for setting a death-sentence upon two dear schoolfellows."

"Oh," says Horatio, darkly, as if he'd forgot. "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. _Well_ —"

"They came at my uncle's bidding, no doubt," Hamlet reasons, "but they had neither craft to grasp the employment, nor desire enough to do me true harm. I'll face Purgatory like unto what my father has suffered, or worse—"

"I've lost patience with faith," Horatio snaps. "It's more fear to you than comfort."

Hamlet closes his eyes, breathless; in his anger, Horatio has tightened his hold and begun to stroke, less than cautious. "Ah, yes, _this_. Our very first argument, in the classroom to boot. We've made an atheist of you, we heathens out here on the isle?"

"An agnostic, perhaps. Who, for all his sins, has lived to see restless spirits roam."

"By the book," realizes Hamlet, suddenly, "we've secured ourselves places in Hell."

Horatio makes a dismissive noise, tightening his fist with even more determination.

"Never believe it. Whatever these priests may say, there's precedent in scripture—"

"David and Jonathan, _et cetera_. But buggery, lying with a man as with a woman . . . "

"An anatomical impossibility," points out Horatio, on the verge of black-humored laughter.  "Although one may lie with a woman as with a man, which is deemed no sin if tactfully not mentioned, _ergo_ —"

"I'll not quarrel with you," Hamlet gasps, twisting to face him. "Your point's made, I tire sorely, and _still_ I'd have you. What of that?"

"Three years at Wittenberg, six months here in mourning, and then . . . _resurrection_ , and then a year and a half more, and still we have not . . . "

"Lain each with the other as with a woman, unless you maintain impossibility?"

"In faith, Hamlet, five years is not truly so long when rife with interruptions."

"I'll trade my faith for yours, by God," says Hamlet, twisting the ring off his finger, _yes_ , even the one with which he had sealed their schoolfellows' fate. "I'd sleep sounder for it, and—" his voice dropped, mindful that others might yet pass in the corridor "—take you _soundly_ , at that."

He presses the ring into Horatio's palm, sealing the gesture with a kiss tasting of bitter herbs.

Horatio pushes it back at him. "I—I do not—that is, your meaning is somewhat obscured—"

"My meaning," Hamlet explains, taking Horatio's left hand in his right, "is that we might at least go about it as honest souls—" he slides the ring into place on Horatio's finger "—or at least as honest as sinners such as we might hope to be."

Horatio stares at the ring, and then at Hamlet. "But you need use of this—"

"Not so much as you'll find _you_ need use of it," Hamlet insists, "as I find _I'll_ need various decrees to cross your desk once swept from my own, as occupied with righting this shambles as I've been. As with most betrothals, there are sundry concerns of state tangled in it."

Horatio kisses Hamlet hard enough to shift them toward the tub's opposite end, causing a fresh deluge.

Hamlet wraps his arms about Horatio's shoulders and tries not to dwell on the profoundness of his fatigue, but Horatio pushes up abruptly, and he complies, content not to press the issue as Horatio groans and spends beneath him. Hamlet's body, responsive and _remembering_ , follows fast.

They wake from dozing slightly chilled, limbs cramped, tangled low in the water.

"We'll make a proper endeavor of it," promises Horatio, sleepily. "When you're well."

"I'm well enough," replies Hamlet, and unsteadily helps him rise. "Or soon will be."


	9. What We May Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of anachronistic folk-song snippets in here, from "The Trees They Grow So High." The two written-down versions of this song that have survived are lyrics from the 1770s; however, the song is known to exist in a number of much older versions. Given that the pseudo-historical circumstances I'm using for this universe are an alternate reality heavily implied to be set during the reign of Elizabeth I, I feel that there's ultimately no harm in using an anachronistic version of the song.

Several weeks on, just as Horatio dares begin to hope that the terrible, rasping cough that Hamlet had developed since their return from Norway has lifted, the Queen of England sends an emissary.

Wan and straight-backed on his father's stately throne, Hamlet peruses the unexpected letter.

“We had hoped,” he begins, only to halt, hand pressed to his thin, taut lips as the next paroxysm takes him, “that our response to Her Majesty's word regarding the executions would prove sufficient.”

“Sufficient as notice of receipt, Eminence,” says the youth, so slight and airy of voice that Horatio wonders how this ambassador has gotten so far in borrowed garb, “and proof of your glorious recovery. My lady wishes nonetheless to establish ties in good faith. Your uncle knew no such thing.”

Lips twisting in distaste, Hamlet accepts Horatio's handkerchief as he begins to cough afresh.

“On that particular point, our agreement with your lady knows no bounds,” he allows grimly.

“We should like to welcome you to London at your earliest convenience,” says the ambassador.

“With respect, sir,” Horatio replies, registering surprise in the young man's eyes, “my lord has been run of late to his health's detriment.” Chagrined, he knows that he should take the personage before him at face value, never mind what the lad must have been called at birth. Others had thus far extended similar courtesy to him and to Hamlet, heaven knew. “How long might Her Majesty wait?”

“Be they traitors or fools, she grieves your loss of friends by way of the dead tyrant's orders.”

Horatio can feel every muscle in Hamlet's body seize as palpably as if they were his own.

“A little month,” says the King, pre-emptively pressing Horatio's handkerchief to his mouth, “or perhaps somewhat less, and we shall be well. Is the astronomical clock at Hampton Court in working order?” He shot Horatio a conspiratorial glance. “My trusted advisor has longed to see it.”

“Oh, he _has_ , has he not?” sing-songs a chilling voice from behind Horatio's chair. “Does our lord jest, good Horatio? Shall I spin in my grave? I'd laugh were my throat not stopped with rue.”

Hamlet, intent upon the ambassador's reply, seems not to notice what horror Horatio turns to behold.

The hollow-eyed specter, shoulders hunched tight against the high back of Horatio's ornate chair, peers around the edge of it even as Horatio does the same. There are withered marsh-violets in her hair.

“What an awful secret lies between us,” whispers Ophelia, flashing him a ghastly smile as she raises one dirt-creased finger to her lips. “ _Shhh_. We must be patient, you see. Just like before.”

 _It's the brændevin Cook put in Hamlet's tea at breakfast_ , Horatio thinks, turning back to the exchange before him, as tense-shouldered as Hamlet. _Which fell to me because he'd take no more than a sip._

“Her Majesty happily accepts this agreement,” continues the ambassador. “You are most gracious.”

“Take your leave in peace, gentlemen,” Hamlet tells the entourage, “and send all our fairest regards.”

Once the Englishmen are gone, Horatio hails Osric with a wave. Aided by Marcellus and other trusted guards, the courtier—lately more dignified of headwear—closes and bars the doors.

“Such a shame you must take to the sea!” Ophelia cries, unseen once more. “Our dearest love's so very, _very_ unwell. My brother'd weep to see it, had he but eyes. Did you know he rests quiet?”

“Quieter than you,” Horatio says under his breath, drawing an idly perplexed grimace from Hamlet.

“Yes, no doubt of that,” allows Hamlet, taking hold of Horatio's ringed hand. “I'm a walking clamor.”

“My lord, I did not mean—” Horatio releases his breath, relieved to find that both the guards and Osric have pointedly turned their backs, conversing amongst themselves at the far end of the chamber. “Something is _much_ amiss,” he continues, lowering his voice. “I thought I heard—”

“You did hear me say we shall call on the mad English queen,” Hamlet sighs. “A formidable ally.”

“You heard naught but the odd young man's prattle?” asks Horatio, cautiously. “Nothing at all?”

Hamlet leans into him, coughing his way through subdued laughter. “I heard you pitch a silent fit.”

“A month and a half hence, no sooner,” Horatio replies, peering behind his chair. “And we shan't travel by ship till the Channel's upon us. I'll keep you as landlocked as I must, sweet Hamlet.”

“You and your fixation with us freezing upon the sea,” Hamlet says, wearily removing his crown.

“How pale he glares,” Ophelia murmurs sadly, one clammy hand creeping to Horatio's shoulder.

Horatio leaps to his feet, ready to bolt, but Hamlet's cold hand instantly catches hold of his wrist.

“Amiss, you said?” asks Hamlet, throat as raw with concern as with abuse. “Horatio, I'll attend.”

Horatio shakes his head, taking the crown off the King's hands, helping Hamlet stagger to his feet.

“I'd as soon attend to _you_ where there's a bed and a valet at our bidding. You need rest.”

“Scholar, tell me,” demands Ophelia, in choler now rather than playful, her disembodied voice echoing in the vastness, “how is it that I can roam these halls by daylight, whereas the poor dead King—”

“I ought to have drunk the stuff,” Hamlet mutters, letting Horatio drag him off the dais, “as remedy?”

“I know not,” says Horatio, hoping that those several words are answer enough for both of them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days pass in blissful uneventfulness, free of both ambassadors and ghosts.

Grudgingly, Hamlet spends the majority of those hours in and out of drug-induced sleep while Horatio splits his time between affairs of state and reading at Hamlet's side. On the third day, in one of his lucid moments, Hamlet, his eyes fixed on the canopy overhead, tugs at Horatio's sleeve.

“If it's all the same, I'd have us go by way of Wittenberg,” he muses faintly. “What say you to that?”

“Grossly sentimental at best and an extra week's transit at worst,” Horatio says, setting aside his book.

“Quite,” Hamlet agrees, curling so that his head rests in Horatio's lap. “Sentiment's what I'm after.”

Horatio leans against the carved headboard, running his fingers through Hamlet's hair. “How so?”

Hamlet fumbles in the skewed sheets for Horatio's free hand, kissing the love-token seal of a ring.

“Let us make your so-called _proper endeavor_ there. Not in our erstwhile lodgings, I fear.”

Horatio's belly warms with guilt and longing in equal measure. “Like as not the building's gone.”

“I'd visit the university,” Hamlet murmurs, drifting. “How I rue what we did not get to finish . . . ”

“His botanical's on the mark,” says Ophelia, seated at the foot of the bed. “How softly he sleeps!”

Horatio fixes her with the sternest expression he can muster. “He could do without your chatter.”

“Can't hear me, poor lamb,” Ophelia croons, eyes darting from Hamlet to Horatio. “What of you?”

“Good lady, that's what I mean,” Horatio sighs. “To the letter. _I_ could do without your chatter, the better to set my attention where it belongs.” He tugs the coverlet up to Hamlet's neck.

“We loved him so, didn't we, the five of us withal,” offers Ophelia, conversationally. “You still do.”

“The . . . _five_?” echoes Horatio, his fingertips tensing between Hamlet's shoulder blades.

Ophelia nods, crawling onto the bed, trailing dried water-weeds from her shroud. “Laertes says he looked on the Prince as on a brother, but I knew better. And those fools whose shallow English graves you'll visit more oft than mine, why . . . ” She frowns, kneeling at Hamlet's feet where they twitch beneath the covers, and then reaches for Horatio's, tweaking his toe. “Mayhap they loved each other.”

“It's only right and true to bear him love,” Horatio says, kicking her off. “Whatever that love may be.”

Ophelia gives him a sly look. “Do you mean country matters? Clearly, man delights _thee_.”

“He has been my only light this half-decade past,” Horatio tells her gravely, watching her expression change. “Matters of heart and country _both_. Had his life ended, mine would have followed.”

Ophelia’s eyes catch the light almost as they’d done when she’d had breath. “Five years?” she asks.

Horatio nods, solemn, startled to find that his fear has abated. “We met second week of first term.”

“I should have known his forced semblances of affection were driven more by the Queen’s desire than aught, rest her soul,” sighs Ophelia, folding her dust-rimed hands in her lap. “But I did love him once.”

“I am sorry to have hurt you,” Horatio says, finding his tongue unwieldy. “Your final hours in my charge were less than kind, and I confess when you gave me the slip . . . ”

“Mad but in _craft_ ,” Ophelia says, tapping her temple, winking. “Pray you, remember. My death was meant for the eyes of the Queen, not a soul as gentle as yours. I made a good end.”

“I agree with you in at least that much,” Horatio replies. “Gertrude was not entirely blameless.”

“How sad,” Ophelia murmurs, picking at the coverlet, “that you in essence have lost a mother, too.”

“She was not that to me, not precisely,” Horatio says, “but she was ever kind. I’ve been an orphan since childhood; I’m no stranger to being alone in the world. Hamlet . . . made me forget.”

“He is not so much a light as a mirror,” Ophelia tells him, reaching for Hamlet’s foot this time, stroking the arch. “And the harm in loving mirrors, Horatio, is that they reflect _all lights_ , even to the point of leaving one blind. Do not refuse to see Hamlet’s faults. As he once told me, he has many.”

“Yes,” Horatio admits. “His pride and his temper come to mind. And occasional misuse of cunning.”

“He thought circles ’round us,” Ophelia says, withdrawing her hand as Hamlet stirs in his sleep. “Argued holes in the tapestries of the palace. I have never seen his mind’s equal until you.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” says Horatio, fiercely. “Come the end, you outmaneuvered us all.”

Breaking into a wicked smile, Ophelia hops off the bed. “Hamlet wakes. Mayhap he felt my touch?”

“Holding discourse with the air, Horatio?” mumbles Hamlet, drowsily. “Surely that’s my province.”

“Thinking, my love,” Horatio replies; Ophelia has vanished. “Plans for our travels, nothing more.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Preparations for a Continental tour culminating in England move slowly, and Hamlet’s recovery is even slower. Ophelia’s ghost finds Horatio only in quiet moments, for which he is grateful; further stunts comparable to the throne-room appearance would have surely made _him_ seem mad.

She appears the first night Hamlet is well enough to make love in weeks, standing round-eyed and silent with her back pressed to the bedchamber wall. Horatio acknowledges her with little more than the occasional glance, as unashamed of his nakedness as of Hamlet’s gasping in his arms.

Once they’re both spent and Hamlet is asleep, Ophelia draws near the foot of the bed.

“You rule him in this as in affairs of state,” she says, curiously pleased. “He’s _woefully_ lost.”

“Give it time,” Horatio tells her, extinguishing the lamp. “There’s such fire in him when he’s well.”

“And now my love is dead and in his grave doth lie,” Ophelia sings, abruptly distracted. “The green grass grows o’er him so very, very high—”

“If you think the King on his deathbed, speak plain,” Horatio snaps in a low whisper, settling into his pillow, reassured that Hamlet shifts in his sleep to nuzzle Horatio’s chest. “You’re amongst friends.”

“I think the King cheated fate by force of your faith in him,” Ophelia says. “And that he pays for it.”

Horatio closes his eyes, burying his face in the chaotic nest of Hamlet’s hair. “Good night, Ophelia.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the fortnight remaining till departure, Horatio selects their traveling party with utmost attention to trustworthiness.

Osric and Marcellus must come without question. The valet and the footman likewise, as they’ve grown accustomed to witnessing exchanges of affection without so much as batting an eye.

With all guards accounted for, their entourage numbers twenty. Hamlet pores over the list of names in subdued, cough-punctuated silence before indicating his approval with a kiss to Horatio’s ring.

“How wondrous strange, this inheritance,” Ophelia observes, standing next to Horatio as it happens.

“It looks well on you, by God,” says Hamlet, with a laugh. “Better than ever on my father or on me.”

Horatio withdraws his hand, holding it subtly to one side so that Ophelia can study the ring unhindered.

“By my faith, not all your horses and men could part me from it,” he reassures Hamlet, smiling at him.

“All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,” says Ophelia, darkly, “couldn’t put him together again.”

“Enough!” Horatio snaps, forgetting himself, turning to face Ophelia. “He’s healed, and we’ll go.”

Hamlet rises, crown abandoned, stepping as close to Horatio as he dares. “To whom do you speak?”

“My demons,” Horatio groans, squeezing his eyes shut, fingers pressed to temples. “They say . . . ”

“I shall doubtless worsen on the road, whatever improvements I have seen,” says Hamlet, soberly.

“Then we’ll delay this a while,” pleads Horatio, down on his knees before he quite registers that it’s Ophelia who has tripped him there, holding him down by the shoulders with iron-clad strength.

Hamlet soothes him, palm against Horatio’s cheek. “What did I say once regarding providence?”

“It’s in the fall of a sparrow, my lord,” Horatio replies. “Furthermore, you said I remind you of one.”

“And I remind you of a gull, but what of that,” Hamlet says, pulling Horatio to his feet. “We’ll go.”

“Alas, I cannot advise you in these matters,” says Ophelia, her footsteps retreating. “No, not I.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They’re just clear of Jutland, amidst German-speaking border towns, when they encounter the players.

Hamlet’s joy on reunion with them knows no bounds. Having heard rumors of death and ruin in Elsinore, the players are relieved to witness firsthand that their Prince—now their King—has survived.

Bernt and Grethe, leaders of the company, appear to have aged another decade in the year and a half since playing _The Mousetrap_ before a dismayed audience at Kronborg. Their son, Jens, nineteen and taller than Hamlet by a head at _least_ , has traded his affability for gravitas.

Ophelia hangs back against the carriage with Horatio while the King embraces each member of the company in turn. Arms folded behind her, barefoot, she bounces slightly in place, watching each tearful exchange with detached, yet passionate fascination. She elbows Horatio in the ribs.

“What were the chances, do you suppose, of encountering them like this on the road?” Ophelia asks.

“Slim if they’d been headed anywhere but north,” Horatio says. “I’d not trust it to the flip of a coin.”

“A tiresome sport,” Ophelia groans, slouching morosely. “Those friends of yours were fond of it.”

“Hamlet and I spent many an hour in the refectory, party to their squabbling on probability,” Horatio agrees. “They were as strange a pair as ever I met. Lacked courtesy toward men of my station.”

“Amongst Hamlet’s faults, I cannot count lack of courtesy,” Ophelia remarks. “And your station is much improved. Why, I should call you Queen of Denmark would it not ruffle your feathers!”

“Regent, courtesan, opportunist,” Horatio sighs. “I take no offense to any, for I’ve heard them all.”

“You must remember Horatio,” Hamlet says gaily, leading Bernt and Grethe over to the carriage.

As Ophelia, striking even in tatters, curtseyed to the players, Horatio struggled to stifle his laughter.

“You appear to be in excellent humor and health,” says Bernt, tugging Horatio forward by his offered hand, clapping him on the forearm. “You’ve played no small part in preserving His Grace, I’m told.”

“I’ve done only what a dear friend in my circumstances must,” replies Horatio. “Good lady, and you?”

Grethe curtseyed, and then went up on tiptoe to kiss Horatio on the cheek. “You’re a fine, fine lad to love him so,” she said before releasing him. “I’ve decried each and every slander against you.”

“Then upon your stage, we’re soundly defended,” says Hamlet, having stepped close to listen. “Your loyalty shall be soundly rewarded, mark me,” he adds, gesturing to Osric. “Pay them a retainer and send them to court at once. Lend them the Great Hall for rehearsals, and send them to their habitual lodgings. We shall have a festival upon our return, drama in lieu of drink. What say you?”

Bernt flushes, overwhelmed by Hamlet’s generosity. “Do you mean to make residents of us, my lord?”

“Till winter’s end,” Hamlet replies. “That we may be cheered by your talents, and that you in turn may observe the way of things under my reign. I have much need of your efforts out in the wider world.”

“I understand, my lord,” says Grethe, unaware that Ophelia had stepped nearly nose to nose with her.

“So fair and kindly, this one,” Ophelia remarks to Horatio. “She played the Queen well, as I recall.”

“Stow yourself,” Horatio whispers, nudging her toward the carriage. “We must depart ere long.”

Hamlet turns from handing Bernt and Grethe off to Osric, fixing Horatio with a puzzled frown.

“I worry for you of late,” he murmurs, opening the carriage door before the footman can reach them, offering Horatio his hand. “Perhaps as much as you worry for me,” he continues, accepting Horatio’s assistance in turn Horatio has regained his footing inside. “What is it you have seen?”

“That which haunts us both,” Horatio sighs, letting Hamlet wrap them in furs, “and always will.”

Hamlet kissed him—chastely, but aching and slow. “Love, tell me your mind if it troubles thee.”

Improbably, Ophelia’s dreamlike, mocking sigh from the corner did nothing to ruin the moment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hamlet’s entourage follows the Elbe to Magdeburg, where the weather waxes fair. They attend Mass in the cathedral, in which, to Horatio’s consternation, Ophelia sets dirty bare feet as blithe as you please.

“I did so love to read saints’ lives,” she says during the processional, “but I cannot recall Maurice.”

“Patron of dyers, merchants, soldiers, sword-smiths, and weavers,” Horatio hissed, setting his eyes on the same stained-glass window as Ophelia was contemplating. He hoped it would pass for devotion.

“This is why we cry _scholar_ and defer to you,” Hamlet whispers, amused. “I had quite forgot.”

“Catherine of Alexandria is easier,” Horatio continues, addressing Hamlet instead, hoping that Ophelia will eavesdrop and be content. “Lawyers, librarians, philosophers, students, and teachers.”

“Hereafter, I shall equate our travails with her suffering on the wheel,” Hamlet says, crossing himself.

“Patron saint of philosophers,” Ophelia mutters, shuffling away down the aisle. “Spare me your tears.”

That night, in lavish lodgings, they scrub off the dust of the road and lounge in the first truly comfortable bed they’ve seen since home. Hamlet seems less pale by firelight than he does by daylight, the scar on his thigh livid beneath the slightest brush of Horatio’s fingertips.

“Has the stinging improved, at least?” Horatio asks, reaching for the jar of mallow-root balm.

“Somewhat,” Hamlet sighs as Horatio applies it with care. “It’s more . . . prickling than pain.”

“I thank the God in whom I am no longer certain that Norway’s physician was to hand as you lay dying,” Horatio murmurs, applying a layer of balm to the scar’s puckered periphery. “Forget the miracles of saints. It is the learning of man that works wonders in this day and age.”

“He could not save the others,” replies Hamlet, softly. “My mother and Laertes. One in three.”

“Would he had saved my brother,” seethes Ophelia’s voice from somewhere near the hearth.

“I thank God, too, you were that one,” Horatio murmurs, bending to kiss the scar’s jagged end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wittenberg greets the entourage with considerable fanfare, the King having been fondly remembered from his not-so-distant student days.

The university chancellor requests an audience within two hours of their arrival, solicitously inquiring as to whether they have been able to secure suitable lodgings. Hamlet accepts a change of venue at the chancellor's insistence.

Their apartments will be both nearer to the college in which he and Horatio had been enrolled, and better-appointed with amenities conducive to Hamlet's recovery. The chancellor, wealthier than ever, had bought up and renovated a great deal of property for clergy and faculty use.

Horatio blinks at mention of the address. “One hopes the ceiling rafters in that quarter are in better condition than we left them,” he mutters.

“Doubtless,” whispers Ophelia, sarcastically. “One cannot have them fall on the head of a cardinal.”

“Or the head of a king,” Horatio sighs, watching Hamlet shake hands with the chancellor. “It's done.”

Repacking the entire affair and moving it to their new location causes no small amount of grousing amidst Osric and the staff. In contrast, Marcellus and the guards bear it with dry, stoic humor.

Hamlet falls into a sound slumber once they've bathed and dried out before the fire. Horatio dismisses the valet, dresses himself, and finishes the setting-out of Hamlet's regalia with exacting care.

“Is it blasphemy to say I rather fancied him in black?” Ophelia asks, poring over Horatio's choices.

“You are as irreverent a spirit as ever I met,” Horatio chuckles, switching out the chain. “Thinner?”

“No, the heavy one,” says Ophelia, shrewdly, tugging the original piece back. “Have you met many?”

“You're the second _literal_ ghostly personage of my acquaintance. Of figurative, I know droves.”

“I saw the old King abroad in the night before e'er you and Hamlet arrived,” Ophelia says quietly.

“Is that why you express continual surprise at your lack of limitations?” asks Horatio, curiously.

Ophelia nods, straightening the chain over Hamlet's fine doublet.

“Always by cock-crow he'd vanish, poor soul,” she murmurs. “Always. Just as you have told me of the nights you saw him yourself.”

Horatio bites his lip, for fear his next question might be read as an insult. “Were you not afraid?”

“I was ten when my mother died of plague,” Ophelia explains. “There's no greater terror than that.”

Shivering at the thought of dread symptoms he's never personally witnessed, Horatio can only nod.

“Death by poison surely holds no candle. It is all I can claim to have seen. You are most brave.”

“Nor do death by blade and drowning, come to it,” Ophelia says, nodding to herself. “This will do.”

“Black did suit him,” Horatio replies belatedly, fingering the chain. When he looks up, she is gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As they stumble down the narrow alley, followed closely by Marcellus and three other guards, Hamlet is laughing hard enough to choke. It's the first he has coughed in days, and due to agreeable cause.

“To have served us in the _college refectory_ , I ask you,” Hamlet gasps, tears running unabashedly down his cheeks, “because the hall his own residence was not sizable enough!”

“It has served some nostalgic, likely-intended purpose, has it not?” Horatio asks, stopping short as the alley opens on what lies before them. He ought to have remembered the courtyard, the _linden_.

“The trees they grow so high and the leaves they do grow green,” Ophelia sings from her perch in Hamlet's favorite branch. “And many a cold winter's night my love and I have seen—”

“Oh, my damnèd soul,” Marcellus whispers, crossing himself, glancing at Horatio. “Do you hear?”

Hamlet, seemingly oblivious, rushes to the tree. He places both hands flat against the gnarled trunk.

“How stalwart she stands,” he says, turning to regard Horatio over his shoulder. “Can you still climb?”

“My lord, I'd advise against it,” Horatio replies, setting his hands parallel to Hamlet's, gazing disapprovingly up into the leaves. “You have made much progress. The effort would tax you.”

Ophelia peers down at him, waving. “All through supper, I sat and waited. Wondered if you'd come.”

“You speak to it daily,” says Marcellus, desperately, “and still it does not depart. What curse is this?”

Hamlet regards the same spot in the branches, but he does not react. “What _devilry_ is this?”

“The wine's gone to his head, perchance,” says Horatio, hastily, setting his hands on Hamlet's shoulders. “Pay the man's rambling no mind. Oft he's heard me speak to myself, and feared . . . ”

“ _Rational_ fear, after such sights as we have seen,” Hamlet points out. “What ails thee?”

“I am sick to death of fear,” Horatio sighs. “And logic, too. If only by faith I might heal you.”

“Good Marcellus, tell your men to turn their backs,” Ophelia calls sternly. “They'll dally a bit.”

Drawing Hamlet into his arms, Horatio reinforces her order with a wave behind Hamlet's back.

“There's no romance we might hope to have here,” he says, stealing a kiss. “Not beyond this.”

“Shameful, too,” Hamlet sighs, tugging down a low-hanging leaf. “I would've liked to climb.”

“You would've done more than that,” Ophelia chides. “Flat on your arse in a flurry of books!”

Hamlet tilts his head back, squinting. “Strange leaves, these, that rustle for lack of a breeze.”

“Take him home for your proper endeavor,” sighs Ophelia, waving them off. “I'll let you be.”

For the entire ride back to their quarters, Marcellus chews curses beneath his bristled lip.

“Which of your demons is abroad tonight, I dare not ask,” Hamlet murmurs, holding fast to Horatio's arm as he leads them up the narrow stair. At the foot of it, Hamlet's valet hovers with a candle.

“Shall I follow, my good lords?” calls the lad, his voice jittery in the blackness. “Or if you wish—”

“Get you back to Osric,” Horatio calls over his shoulder, key already in the lock, finding the room warm and ready within. “You've done your work well of an evening. Tell him you're owed a drink.”

Hamlet all but slams the door behind them, instantly shedding his cap, chain, and furs on the floor.

“What sport you and Marcellus make, I care not,” he says, “so long as this endeavor's worth the wait.”

“It's yours as much as it is mine,” chides Horatio, stripping down in kind. “We'll learn together anon.”

None of Cook's efforts to feed Hamlet back to health have been successful, for he's as thin as the day as he was first carried wounded to his bed.

Horatio traces the contour of each rib as Hamlet lays him down, content to take the brunt of Hamlet's slight weight.

“You're a sight trimmer yourself, had you but eyes and a mirror,” Hamlet teases between kisses.

“With the light yours reflect, they're mirror enough,” Horatio replies with reverence, thumbing along Hamlet's cheekbones, brushing at his lower lashes. “Clear as the brook in spring.”

Hamlet chews his lip. He rolls aside and then back again, spine pressed warm down Horatio's front.

“The balm might ease your way,” he suggests, snagging his jar from atop the trunk next to the bed.

Horatio kisses the back of Hamlet's neck, strokes Hamlet's arms and belly and chest until those peerless eyes close in bliss. The balm has a better use, at least at first. Hamlet strains in Horatio's slick palm.

“Horatio—heaven and _earth_ , I cannot—” Hamlet falters, stifling a cough in the pillows.

“You needn't last,” Horatio murmurs, finding it difficult to concentrate with Hamlet's balm-covered fingers making short work of him. He maneuvers Hamlet back into place, nudging Hamlet's thighs apart just enough. “For now, let _this_ —”

Horatio shudders, thrusting hard as Hamlet, guiding Horatio's hand to wrap around him, gets the gist. He tucks his chin over Hamlet's shoulder.

As Horatio's eyes open, there she is: silhouetted by the fire, crouched next to Hamlet's edge of the bed.

“What we are now,” Ophelia whispers, reaching to brush Hamlet's cheek, “is what we have become.”

As if at the bidding of her touch, Hamlet comes with Horatio's name near-soundless upon his lips.

“Yes, and I know what we—” Horatio can't think for the suddenness with which he, too, is gone.

“What we may be is for God to decide,” Ophelia soothes, stroking Horatio's cheek in turn. “Rest.”

Forearm thrown across his eyes, Hamlet laughs weakly. “We must sound less like birds by the hour.”

“Less like birds and more like ourselves,” Horatio says, recovering. “Sweet Hamlet, look you there.”

Hamlet uncovers his face and beholds— _curse_ her—the empty space before him. “What do you see?”

“Alas,” Horatio sighs, rolling Hamlet over to face him, content at the sight. “It’s what I do _not_.”


End file.
